The idea struck me while I was scurrying from the gym to the subway, my hood pulled down tight over my wet hair, face bent down away from the wind. I choked a laugh in to my scarf. Then I dug around in my bag for my cell phone and, yanking off a mitten with my canine teeth, henpecked a text message to my sisters.

The responses were synchronized and immediate. Game on.

On Christmas morning, we woke up, stumbled to the bathroom one by one and then locked ourselves in the guest room. After a quick flurry of rustling crinolines and giggling, the door was unlocked. Mom was stirring a pot of cocoa when her four girls emerged, rubbing at sleepy eyes and tucking wild strands of bed head behind their ears. Mom’s spoon halted in its stirring.

“What is this? What’s going on? You look so pretty!â€ù

We ignored her and headed into the living room where we gathered up our stockings and made ourselves comfortable. Comfortable as girls in satin, boning and yards and yards of tulle can be. I tugged at my long black gloves and dug around in my stocking for a chocolate something or other, while Mom scurried around the room, in total bemusement, fingers fluttering near her mouth, unsure of what to say.

“Merry Christmas,â€ù she said finally.

“Don’t you mean, Merry Princess?â€ù Nora corrected her, dramatically smoothing the skirt of her baby blue prom dress and blinking coquettishly.

We fell into giggles. Mom still stood there looking shocked.

“Mom, why don’t you go get your wedding dress on? Otherwise, you’re going to feel really out of place.â€ù

When StepBob came in from getting the paper a few minutes later, he looked around at the five of us in our formal wear, shrugged and disappeared into the bedroom. He came out wearing a fedora.

The Hunters are a family of teasers, goofballs and shenanigan lovers. And we have always been this way. If a holiday calls for turkey and the trimmings, we’re sitting down to homemade Mexican food and gloppy chocolate shakes mixed up in the blender. And from now on, when we open our Christmas Eve pajamas, I don’t think a single one of us will have the slightest intention of wearing them the next morning.

Merry Princess, indeed.

At 7AM on Thursday morning, with a few hours until I had to leave for the airport, I threw a long wool coat over my pajamas, slipped on some shoes and hit the street. I was on a Christmas mission. When Gristede’s didn’t have Jax cheese puffs, I didn’t panic. When two bodegas and Duane Reade didn’t have them, either, I started to get a bit worried. I couldn’t show up without them. That would be like… well, whatever Santa’s biggest failure was in your childhood. Peaches ‘n Cream Barbie, for instance. Small request, bitter disappointment.

But I prevailed. And Food Emporium blessed me with a Christmas miracle.

At 7AM on Friday morning, after I had been in Dallas all of fourteen hours (and slept only four of those), I climbed into my mom’s car armed with an iTrip, directions and a snack (thanks, Mom). When we first made our plans, Stephanie was still very much pregnant — and intending to stay that way for quite a while. But in light of recent… arrivals, our plans changed somewhat. When I arrived in Austin (with gifts of Jax cheese puffs and some Jewish baked good I’d never heard of before), instead of an afternoon of our usual silliness, Phil, Stephanie and I made our way to the hospital and into the NICU.

After scrubbing in, we peeked in at the babies. Swaddled tightly in pink and blue receiving blankets, Abigail and Lucas were having a snooze in their (for lack of a better word) baby aquariums, while monitors blinked and beeped above them. Heart rate. Blood oxygen. Respirations. Temperature. Mommy Klein took a seat in the rocking chair the nurse had brought in, and Lucas was pried out of his warm little cocoon for a visit.

I’m going to pause here and tell you that if the next paragraph uses an offensive number of platitudes and over-used baby related expressions, you’re just going to have to deal. There are no other words.

Those little babies were magic. Ever since I saw the picture of his tiny hands, I have been obsessed with the miniature perfection of his strong little fingers. With his warm, wee head cupped in the palm of my hand I pushed down the sudden instinct to cry at the astonishment I was feeling. He gripped my index finger as Stephanie attempted to give him a lesson in nursing (I suppose it should be strange to be so up close and personal with your friend’s nipples, but honestly, nothing could have seemed less strange) and a little bit of my heart broke. Abigail, now free from tubes on her round little face, was the picture of sweetness. She smelled warm, mellow and earthy. Without the normal coating Johnson and Johnson products, babies reek of purity. I felt like I was touching an actual miracle.

At 8PM on Friday night, the three of us were exhausted. Phil had made up the guest room and showed me around the guest room spa. Right? Guest room spa. Sauna, steam room, Stephanie’s charming touches of fluffy white towels and smelly bath products. Full of dinner and sleepiness, I sat myself in the steam for a few minutes. I was out cold within the hour.

At 7AM Saturday morning, a good thirty minutes after I heard Phil leave to deliver breast milk to the hospital, I hugged a sleepy Stephanie good-bye and began the four hour trip back to Dallas.

Let’s not spoil things and keep the fact that my return trip took only three hours from our friends in law enforcement. Besides, I wasn’t speeding. It was a Christmas miracle.

I haven’t been home for Christmas since the pre-divorce days. Which, after a quick check of the Decembers chronicled by my blog, I figure would have been 2001.

For five years, Christmas has been care packages and phone calls and days spent with friends and their families because I was not done being mad at my own. But apparently, there is a five year statute of limitations on being really, really pissed off and this Christmas, I’m going home to be spoiled and coddled and baked for. And I’m not alone. We’re all going home. (Except my brother and his new-ish wife who have in-law obligations. But as the only non-girl, he doesn’t count anyway.)

Home, these days, is a city or two away from its former address and now shaped like a two-bedroom condo – not the five bed, three bath monster we grew up in. And the image dancing around in my head of four Hunter sisters sharing the same wee bathroom and cramped sleeping spaceâ€_ well, I can’t tell you how it just fills me to the brim with holiday cheer.

I remain stupidly optimistic.

Alternatively Titled: See? Being a total spaz is genetic!

Heather: So, I went to my first Pilates class today. And if I don’t DIE from how hard it is, I think I will have a very strong back and stomach when all is said and done.

Mom: First glance at your email, and I thought you said you went to your first PIRATES class today! Pilates is somewhat disappointing after that.

Heather: Oh, MAN! Pirates class! Where do I sign up???

Mom: Exactly what I thought, then, oh… exercise. Hmm. You think it was hard today? It’s tomorrow when you will rue the day you ever HEARD of Pilates. You’ll be wanting to walk the plank to Davy Jones’ locker, thacha will, matey. It’ll be yo-ho-ho and a bottle of Ben Gay.

Heather: …

1. How to be a well-prepared traveler
2. The art of paying compliments
3. Non-surgical breast enhancement techniques
4. What beautiful is
5. Jealousy
6. Appreciation for stinky cheeses
7. How to dance
8. What not to wear
9. Photoshop
10. How to listen

Have at it! Reminder: Comments take time to appear, so please do not post more than once. Oh, and if you want to post a link, please use html to make it a hyperlink. Long urls really eff up the formatting and I have to delete them.

Aside from the Costa Rican driving experience, I did not find it at all difficult to unwind in the jungle paradise. We spent the first two days of our trip in Arenal, just a hop, skip, and a pot-holed road away from an active volcano. Active, but apparently shy. It hid behind a thick mist for our entire visit. Tabacon Hot Springs, the resort our travel guy booked for us, was much fancier than we’d anticipated. The room wasn’t anything too spectacular (beyond boasting a bathroom bigger than my entire apartment), but the food and the service was nothing short of the royal treatment. Just try pouring your own coffee there. They won’t be havin’ any of that!

On Wednesday, after our adventure above the canopy, we spent the day hopping between natural hot springs, the swim up bar, and the Grand Spa. I fell asleep during both of my treatments and I’m pretty sure I didn’t fully gain consciousness until the next day.

Thursday, we headed for to the Central Pacific Coast. The drive was lessâ€_ adventurous than the trek up to the mountains (when I got out of the car in Arenal, my arms were aching from manipulating four hours of intense serpentine curves), but when we arrived at Punta Leona, we met with our first disappointment. The “bungalowâ€ù was more like a motel room on a slab of concrete, and though it was promised to be “steps from the beach,â€ù it was actually more like a fifteen minute drive. The place was deserted. So we climbed right back in the car, determined to make lemonade, and headed back down the road to Steve n Lisa’s – a restaurant we found in the guidebook. It only took a few lobsters (and a piña colada) to adjust our bad attitudes.

Then there were the Canadians we picked up at reception the next morning. But, I’ll have to dedicate a whole entry to them as they were a huge part of turning the experience around and making it nothing short of delightful.

Downshifting to a few days of beach time actually took some effort. I’m not kidding. I felt a little anxious about not having to be somewhere, doing something. But after a few hours at Playa Blanca, I re-learned how to just do nothing. My favorite nothings being bobbing in the ocean, drawing sand crocodiles, and exploring early morning tide pools with Jen. Rough life, isn’t it? And yet, somehow, by 9:30 every night, we were out cold from a day of hard beachin’.

(First three photos by Jen. More to come.)

Apparently, while I was away, an article about relationship resolutions that I wrote some time ago was published on MSN. From 5 Relationship Resolutions for 2007,

Not all men are self-loathing, egocentric, cheating bastards. In fact, most people have a lot more good to them than bad, and by and large, will live up to the expectations you set for them. Not since junior high have I worried that a friend would hurt or disappoint me. But with men, it’s been a constant fear. I realized that this was all because of expectations. If I did not expect – or even demand – that a man treat me right, he probably wasn’t going to. I’m not talking about princessy stuff here, like buying me dinner or calling by Tuesday if he wants to see me on Saturday. I’m talking about basic good treatment. Like following through with plans. Or being aware of my feelings. Or not leaving his cell phone on another girl’s nightstand and telling me he’d lost it. You know, common consideration. And when common consideration is breached? Next!

You may find it interesting to note that this was originally written over a year ago. So uh, those inclined to shrink me may want to keep that in mind before launching that, “here’s what’s wrong with youâ€ù email. Oh, and that story about the cell phone on another girl’s nightstand? Forthcoming. It also happens to be the head-butting story I promised.

Dear Internet,

If I died tomorrow, I’d go out an immensely satisfied woman. Here lies Heather Hunter. She lived well. And she had the lava mud wrap.

We spent the morning speeding at 55 mph, five football field lengths above the forest floor on zip lines. I will write more about it later when we upload and post the video footage (you’ll get to see exactly what we did), but it was, without a doubt, the most thrilling experience of my entire life. I was in stunned awe. The thought crossed my mind that I could die in the pursuit of such an adventure, but hanging in the air with the world spilling out around me, I honestly did not care. And that was a strange realization to confront.

“We may not be sitting in the lap of luxury,” Jen said, later as we sipped frozen drinks next to a hot spring heated waterfall. “But we’ve got the seat next to it.”

This place is stupidly fancy and we’re paying Manhattan prices for it. We’re both relieved to be heading to the beach tomorrow where life is cheaper and, well, a little less dream like. Not that I can’t hang. But we came to drink in Costa Rica, and I have my doubts that Swedish Massage and lava mud wraps are at the heart of that drink. But so long as it comes with a pineapple wedge…

This afternoon, I fell asleep during my mud wrap. I’ve been just that relaxed. This is total serenity. I only woke up when I found myself dreaming of stepping into the hot springs and my foot jerked me awake. The therapist sensed I was conscious.

“Heather, would you like mud on your chest and tummy?”

Oh hell yes.

My skin is glowing and butter soft from all the rain (rainforest, duh), the near constant rain which hasn’t been the least bit annoying because every damn thing here is enchanting. The people, I have found, are the country’s most amazing treasure. I’m in love.

See you soon,

Heather

1. How to parallel park
2. Drum kit assembly
3. HTML
4. Avoidance
5. The art of making perfect hummus
6. Tequila makes me angry
7. How to lie
8. Not everyone considers Labrynth to be a must-see
9. Why women fake it
10. To love my own body

Your turn. Remember, comments may take hours to post.

We leave so early tomorrow morning that really, it will still be night.

Friday evening, I had a couple of hours before going out, so I decided to pack. Packing led to trying on my new bikini*. Digging through the closet for a cover-up led to the discovery of a pair of gorgeous shoes I bought months ago in Phoenix. iTunes was teen-rocking my apartment with The All-American Rejects and Panic! At the Disco. If you were so inclined as to peep from my fire escape, you’d have caught a glimpse at the 2006 Miss UES Scholarship Pageant. Shakin’ it to Dirty Little Secret in a bikini and heels, all I was missing was the wave. And a talent.

Luckily I was the only contestant.

Speaking of dirty-ish little secrets. Last year in the Bahamas, I got engaged to Action Jackson, the hotel’s nipple-pierced limbo king. The year before that in Malaga, there were some steamy hostel common room antics with a broody South African (god, I love ‘em broody). So if Costa Rica wants to make it into my travelogue, I’m gonna have to see some mischief at the swim-up bar. Or! Or during surfing lessons. That’s the ticket! Barring any nip-slip accidents, I think private water sport lessons are my best bet.

I also spent a better part of the weekend brushing up on my Spanish and studying road maps. Now, I have a Lewis & Clark caliber internal compass. I have a knack for context clues that only MacGyver could teach. I navigated the souqs of Marrakech, yet the idea of trying to find my way from the mountains to the beach is giving me serious anxiety.

Is driving on Xanax a terrible idea? Yeah, yeah. I know. My liver.

So, with t-minus fourteen hours until we take off (that 3:30 AM wake up call is going to kick my ass), my bags are packed, every cubic centimeter of my quart-sized Ziploc bag taken up by cute, travel-sized containers of liquids (thank you, terrorists, for a reason to buy wee things), and my heart is full of the appropriate amount of fear at the prospect of driving in a country that doesn’t care to mark its roads.

*Malia Mills, ladies. The most painless swimwear experience I have ever had. They fit by your bra & jeans size and are worth saving your pennies for. On the day after you eat half a turkey and the trimmings, the sales associate will tell you your boobs are bigger than you thought and that your ass is smaller. And you will add her to your Christmas card list.

Just a reminder: iVillage has turned on Comment Moderation. This means there will be a lag-time (sometimes minutes, sometimes hours) between you posting your comment and it being published to the public site. Please do not repost your comment over and over — your first try will do. Just be patient.

Comment Moderation allows me to leave comments turned on and keep the blog spam free while I’m in Costa Rica (yee!).

Many thanks!

“See, I understand you, Heath. Isn’t that what every woman dreams of – to be understood by a man?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Liar!”

“Dude, I don’t need you to understand me – that’s what shrinks and girlfriends and… and the internet are for. I need you to want me. To chase me around the apartment in my underwear and think about me when you’re at work or brushing your teeth or waiting for the subway. I need you to pull my hair and make out with me in cabs. I need you for morning sex and late-night phone calls and questionably legal activity in the elevator. But not understanding.”

“…”

“Well, obviously not you specifically…”

“Are you sure? Because… I could do that.”

“Yeah, I’m sure. You, specifically, I need to pour me another drink and pretend to understand me some more.”

“…”

“What?”

“Could I maybe just pull your hair?”

“Watch it.”

Whatever you do, don’t let it get out that I stayed home tonight and watched, She’s the Man. Not because people would suddenly question my taste in film (way too late for that) but because then we might have to have a serious discussion about just exactly how wrong it is to think high school boys are worth a good knuckle bite.

Hellooo, Duke.

In other news, I kicked that kidney stone’s ass! By which I mean, I screamed obscenities and cried a little bit, and when Goldner’s mom held my hand, I not only let her (I’m not such a big ‘touch’ person), but I squeezed back a message in hand-holding morse code that said,

Kill me. And do it quick.

But see, that’s over now. All except for the antibiotic and lifetime supply of vicodin. Anyway, I have, to date, licked appendicitis and a kidney stone. And now I have no intention of having babies. Ever. I’ve been told both… adversities* approximate the childbirth experience and you’re crazy if you think I’d go through that again. No matter how cute and sweet-smelling the product is. I’ll steal babies from the park, thank you very much.

I’m still not one hundred percent, so the head-butting story will have to wait until more of my senses return so I can do it justice. In the meantime, enjoy this little gem. A friend showed it to me a few weeks ago, and I just can’t stop whispering,

Do you know vy? Do you know vy? I’ll tell you vy.

*That’s for you, Jen and Kate.

At first, I blamed it on the gym. Around 4:00 yesterday, I started fidgeting in my office chair, unable to get comfortable. By the time I made it to the subway, I had a hard time hanging onto the bar. I popped a few Advil, but as the night wore on, my symptoms became much harder to mistake for gym soreness. I was in agony.

“Sounds like you’re longing for Death’s sweet embrace,â€ù Goldner said when we talked later that night.

“Oh, god, am I,â€ù I said, between Lamaze breaths. “Hmm, do you think Death likes to cuddle after?â€ù

“I’m sure it’s of very little comfort, but it seems like you’re keeping a good sense of humor about this.â€ù

Even this afternoon – after a trip to the radiology center and the doctor’s office – I failed to see how the situation could have been funnier. I mean, six days before I’m supposed to leave for a week in the jungle and I’m doubled over in pain, while my kidney is giving birth. To a rock.

Hi-larious! Especially the part where there is no recourse – except to tough it out and hope that the painkillers keep up with your labor pains. Hoo boy, that’s good.

Besides, who gets kidney stones? Dads, that’s who. My dad, Ari’s dad. Probably your dad. Kidney stones are maladies for middle aged dudes with bad diets and paunchy bellies – like herniated discs andâ€_ the gout.

“Jared Leto had the gout,â€ù Ari informed me on the phone just now.

“Well, uh, there you have it.â€ù

I like to think I’m usually wittier with the phone banter, but honestly, I’m a little stoned. Warning me that the next few days were going to be… less than comfortable, Dr. Dea instructed me to use the Vicodin “liberally.â€ù And who am I to argue with doctor’s orders?

It’s Monday morning. Do you know where your shit is?

Normally, my shit is so together that it’s stacked in the fridge in portion-controlled Tupperware, or folded and packed into my gym bag by the front door. It’s color-coded, labled and organized for space and time efficiency.

But not this morning. Oh no.

In the last six days, I haven’t managed to buy a single grocery item, so my breakfast this morning was yogurt of questionable age and a rather squishy kiwi fruit. Lunch will have to be something from the deli, most likely containing three days worth of my government recommended daily allowance of sodium. I can’t find my sunglasses. My socks don’t match and I’m pretty sure that because of an oversight in packing, I’ll be going commando at the gym.

But on the upside, The Rage is gone. Finally.

On a day-to-day basis, I’m a fairly even tempered female and with the exception of a bizarre head-butting incident in front of Pete’s Candy Store, I don’t have a lot of experience with losing my shit. I did have a panic attack once, though. It lasted ten minutes. And during that ten minutes, I became convinced that I was going to die if it didn’t stop. Now, drag that feeling out for approximately three weeks, and you get a sense of my experience with The Rage. It was like choking down a PMS-claustrophobia-insomnia omelet for breakfast every morning. For almost a month.

Jen and I met at Starbucks yesterday to review plans and maps for our Costa Rica trip (t-minus seven days!) and we got to talking about The Rage. She said it’s just something that comes with living in New York – sharing your breathing space with just one person too many for just one day too many. You just eventually get so bent out of shape that you snap. The girl’s got ten years of New York under her belt, so I’m not going to question her wisdom.

I will, however, look into purchasing a sensory deprivation chamber. Because, frankly, I don’t think I can handle losing my shit like that again. It takes me way too long to get it all back into its properly labeled, 12oz, color-coded containers.

(P.S. iVillage has turned on “Comment Moderation” which means there will be a lag time between you posting and your comment showing up. But don’t worry, it will. This, by the way, is a good thing. It will mean I can leave comments on whilst I am away in the jungle and not free to check for iVillage no-no’s like the c-word, spam comments, or irresponsible criticism of our nation’s government. I kid about the government thing. We all know that Bush blows.)

“Wait, if they’re all here, who’s watching the O.C.?”

The bartender shrugged. “It’s a holiday. Probably a rerun.”

It was the night before Thanksgiving and my local bar was over stuffed with girls in barely-there, ruffled skirts and boys with deeply emotional hair. Larry the Bartender was feeling generous and to my knowledge hadn’t carded a single one of them… and they repaid him by not tipping.

“This is the bar that Mischa Barton built.” I said, and played another Neil Diamond song on the juke box. It was fun just to watch them squirm.

Ari and I were three – okay, fine, four – cosmos under and being wildly entertained by the crazy lady hitting on the bartender’s buddy (“And then, my next boyfriend… wait, will you make out with me? I haven’t made out with anyone in like, six months.”) and the emo-haired boy who’d asked me how this “juke box thing worked.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No. What do I do?”

“Graduate from high school.”

“You’re funny. Eeew. Is that Hunt’s ketchup?”

The diner next door had sent our fries over without ketchup, and so Larry the Bartender had given us his bar stash. Now, I’m a Heinz girl myself, but when you’re trying to soak up three different kinds of alcohol from your otherwise empty stomach, you don’t so much care what kind of ketchup you’re using.

“Did you just say eew?”

“Yeah. You’re eating sub par ketchup. I would never eat that shit.”

I waved him off and gave him a quick jukebox tutorial. Once he’d gotten a handle on the drop-in-the-money-choose-a-song complexity, I watched him flip through the selections, pausing on Kid Rock. I bristled and went back to my cocktail.

The next thing I knew, the sweet strains of Guns n’ Roses filled the air. Ari and I looked at each other, confused.

“No way.”

“And they seem to know all the words.” I scanned the bar. Every single under-aged mouth was moving effortless to the second verse of Sweet Child o’ Mine.

“Uch. That earns them at least four more cool points than I wanted to give them.”

“It’s a Thanksgiving Miracle.”

One corner of the Union Square office where I work is rented out by a small consulting firm, run by a German woman named Norah.

As a very quick aside: Norah is pretty hot. I’ve found myself staring at her on more than one occasion trying to figure out just exactly what it is that makes her that hot. So that I may go home immediately and replicate it. I’ve thus far been unsuccessful in isolating the exact ingredient, but the tattoo on her stomach does not hurt. End aside.

The small consulting firm employs a foreign office assistant and an answering machine. It’s the kind of machine that plays each message as it comes in (I much prefer the strong silent type that keep their messages to themselves.) and a few times a day, when no one is around to pick up, we hear the same outgoing greeting and then the ramblings of strange voices on the other end.

Yesterday, Bruce called.

“Hi, Norah. This is Bruce Very Unique Last Nameâ€_ I was calling to see if you had plans on Friday nightâ€_â€ù

Bruce went on to leave his home phone number, his office number and stammered for a moment before closing with,

“And if you could call me back, that would be reallyâ€_ nice.â€ù

I stifled a giggle and looked around at my coworkers. Smirks all around. Obviously, Norah had met this guy out somewhere, given him her card and he’d manned up and called her. (Personally, I’d have chosen email, but I’m actually a bit terrified of the phone.) And obviously, Bruce assumed he’d be working with modern technology, feeling safe to leave his message on voicemail, unaware that he had an audience. He was also unaware that the audience would hear his message at least twice again that afternoon when the office assistant (whose first language is not English) played it back to write down the message.

By 4:00, Bruce was an old friend. A quick Google search led us to his medical credentials and, jackpot!, a photo. This led to all sorts of office shenanigans. Speculation to a mind with a focus problem. One taste and I’m off the wagon.

Eventually, out of guilt and maturity, one of my coworkers suggested the answering machine be turned down. For the sake of Norah’s (and poor saps like Bruce) privacy. The very same coworker, I might add, who this morning, heard the phone ring and craned his neck to listen for the message.

“Guess I shouldn’t have asked them to turn it down.â€ù

“Ruiner! That might have been Bruce!â€ù I did my best to block out the construction clamor below, but it was no use. The voice was only a mumble.

“Why do I get the feeling that the next thing to happen would have been you answering the phone pretending to be Norah?â€ù

“Are you insinuating that there would be something wrong with that?â€ù

He has yet to provide me with a satisfactory argument.

Like all good fantasies, making out in the rainforest at the Natural History Museum was a fantastic idea. The actual execution of it, however, was maybe not as much. Or, at least, nothing like I’d imagined it.

For starters, making out loses some of its hotness when you schedule it. Large conference room, ten sharp, synchronize Outlook calendarsâ€_ now! The moment we walked into the cheesy (even cheesier than my memory had captured it) dimly lit, plastic canopied corridor, the outing started to feel just a little more absurd than hot.

“Okay,â€ù I said, sliding onto one of the long wooden benches. “I’m just going to sit here and collect myself and when you’re readyâ€_â€ù

He sat down to my left and slid one hand behind me across the top of the bench. As he turned his body toward me, his other hand sliding across the stomach of my black sweater, he lowered his face to mine andâ€_

And I swear, it would have been one really awesome kiss if either one of us could have kept from laughing. Right then, I decided that my next fantasy is going to have to be something that doesn’t involve being stared at by large plastic insects and tiny stuffed deer. Next time, less biodiversity and moreâ€_ doors. After my rainforest experience, I totally get the appeal of the mile high club. Doors that lock.

Which brings me to the second little snag.

Who knew so many kids would be at the museum. On a Saturday afternoon. Ahem. It’s pretty hard to enjoy the fulfillment of your hot (albeit silly) make out fantasy when they parade hundreds of impressionable youngsters through there to make you feel like a dirty old pervert. Someone should really do something about that. You know, spread dirty rumors about the big blue whale or something. Or! Or perhaps I’ll start warning parents that, when overcome by the primitiveness of it all, their young sons might attempt to fellate an ancient Mexican stone idol.* History can be darkly seductive.

Anyway, with some luck, the rainforest managed to stay kid (and adult) free for a solid minute and a half, which made our second attempt at the fantasy make out a much bigger, lower lip biting, PDA success.

*We actually witnessed this on Saturday and I’m not quite sure I’ve recovered from it.

I’ve taken the post down. I don’t know much about these things, but I bet it’s cached somewhere and that if you really wanted to find it, you could. Anyway, I’m not sure if I regret writing it. I know I felt a whole lot better after I did. I also know I regret that I didn’t say it gracefully and that those of you who I would never have wanted to offend, have been. Because I never wanted that. For that, I really am sorry.

What I wanted was to get it out there – to spill my guts the way I have been for these last few years. Sometimes my guts are pretty fucking ugly. I used to be able to use this blog as an outlet for the ugliness. Maybe I just had a better handle on it then. Guarded my tone better and kept my overreactions to crying jags in the shower.

Lately, I’ve been exhausted and overwhelmed. I’ve walked down the sidewalks with my fists clenched, fighting the urge to strike out at strangers, feeling the kind of impulses I imagine they lock people up for. Ugly guts. So if I overreacted here, that is why. Some of you won’t consider that much of a reason or this much of an apology.

I’ll say this: I’m a dumbass sometimes. But a lot of times, it’s the dumbass moments that help me figure things out.

Like always, I’m grateful for those who tried to understand. Even if you didn’t agree with me. I appreciated your emails.

I’ll be honest – I’m not sure how long I’ll leave the comments open. I’ve read enough “I hate youâ€ù emails and comments in the last few days. And no matter how much you think I deserve it, it does get to a girl.

I’m cranky today.

I didn’t even realize it until I was reading an email from my mother and suddenly felt compelled to scream, “Stop asking me so many god damned questions!” And as a rule, I like questions. I like email. No, I love it. I love swapping bits of chatter back and forth as I plough through the workday. But apparently not right now.

Because right now, I am cranky. Cranky as hell.

A lot of it is being tired – getting home late, not sleeping well too many nights in a row. I know a girl who could really use a glass of wine and a Tylenol PM. Or two. Of each.

Some of it is frustration – goals not reached, results not achieved, expectations not met. Sometimes I come down with an acute case of the Little Mermaid syndrome and no matter how well I’m doing, I want more. More success, more affection, more reassurance. Only, right now, I’m too tired to chase it down.

Some of it is anger. When I’m legitimately mad about something, I get all cloudy and the corners of my mouth get dragged down so that I spend hours, if not days, wearing my subway face. My you don’t want to experience what happens if you screw with me face. I really don’t like being mad. Laughter, stupid jokes, wisecracking – that’s the natural state of Heather. Deviations from it just feel wrong.

And a tiny little bit of it is the divot taken out of my left heel. From a pair of totally adorable, harmless looking shoes that may as well have been coated in flesh eating bacteria. I know. It’s icky and it hurts.

And! And I can’t find my phone. And that really pisses me off.

There’s something about the rain that makes me feel worn out and lonely. Waking up to the sound of it on my fire escape – well, it’s just no way to begin my day. I’d already had too much coffee and it wasn’t quite 9AM, and I was dragging myself to work with that heavy feeling around my head, alone and lonely in a city of millions. A rusty penny, unlucky side up.

Then a song came on and I smiled.

A knee-jerk reaction, I grabbed for my phone and pressed the button for a number I hadn’t called in a long, long time. But it was too early for him. I left a message.

“Hi. You said to call if I ever needed anything. And I need to be taken dancing. Actually, I need to be spun and twirled and told I’m the prettiest little thing this side of the Mississip’. At least twice. With feeling. I need tight jeans and sawdust and Southern Comfort with lime. If you could make that happen, I just might make it through today.â€ù

Then I click-clacked up Fifth Avenue to finish starting my day.

I convinced myself, minute by minute, and then hour by hour, to forget the message. But never really forgetting. So when my phone buzzed, a text message light in the window late this afternoon I smiled again.

Done and done. Be downstairs at 9:30.

I expect a different kind of heavy feeling around my head tomorrow.

You people never cease to amaze me.

Once again, you delivered above and beyond expectation! In the last week, we collected almost a thousand test profiles and the Tech Dudes couldn’t be happier. They’re like little gleeful Scrooge McDucks, doing the breaststroke in a mountain of gold coins. Only, you know, with data.

Wow. That worked so much better in my head.

Anyway, now that we’re all full of data, check out the community online dating blog I’ve been working on! Already it features some pretty awesome stories by folks like Derek (“Judy Miller (Almost) Got me a Date”) and quotes from dozens of you who volunteered to be guinea pigs. Navigate around — there’s more hiding off the main page.

So, here’s the latest ask:

In short, I want your dating stories! Your comments about how much online dating stinks, or how awesomely it’s worked out for you or what you think should being going on to make the magic happen. Your opinions are invaluable – a room full of Tech Dudes hasn’t really been providing quite the same level of inspiration. Though, I’m sure that goes without saying.

Anyway, stop by! Or if you have a particularly awesome (or awesomely bad) dating story, email it to me!

Coming up tomorrow: Tight jeans, sawdust and Southern Comfort. With lime.

Call the caterer. The wedding’s off.

For the past six days or so, I’ve been in an arranged marriage with one of my coworkers. Not that he was aware of it until this morning when I called it off, but seriously, the less men know, the better.

Visa problems have made life one hoop-jumping contest after another for the Coworker and so last week, Brooke, the office do-gooder, emailed me that he’d found a solution. It was all so simple. I would marry the Coworker, end his visa problems and put to rest everyone’s fears about a long, solitary future with rocking chairs and cats.

Brilliant.

The joke took off – though still without the Coworker noticing – and I began trying out my first name with his last name, even answering to it once in the office. All was going swimmingly (I’d be a holiday bride!) until this morning when he announced that his immigration problems were all but cleared up.

“But!â€ù

“â€_â€ù He stood there with a cup of tea in his hand, waiting for me to explain my outburst.

“But we were supposed to get married! I was supposed to be Mrs. Coworker!â€ù

“I’m sorry,â€ù he said, not seeming at all fazed by the imaginary wedding I’d been planning.

Obviously, this is exactly the sort of thing he’s come to expect from me, and just the sort of thing that goes on in this place. Sheer nonsense. Like yesterday when I asked for banjo players at our marketing jamboree (what’s a jamboree without banjos?) and the idea was seriously considered.

“Eh, that’s okay. My mom is going to be so disappointed.â€ù

Not that my mom was aware of the arranged marriage either. Because seriously, the less moms know, the better. Mine probably still thinks “gettin’ jiggy with it’ is some dirty reference to sex. In such cases, it’s best just to let things be.

Yesterday was one of the most mundane yet satisfying days I’ve spent in the city in a long, long time.

I’d gone to bed early Saturday night (the day had started somewhere around 3:30AM with a good drunk dial that seemed to segue into an early brunch), so yawn, stretch, shower, I was up and at ‘em before 9AM. My inner teen was pissed, but by 10, I was breakfasted and off to do laundry, sip coffee and wander Barnes & Noble while I waited for the spin cycle.

Satisfaction #1: New good book.

A collection of short, magical stories, that somehow manage to be both disturbing and whimsical, made babysitting the dryer totally painless. And by the time I wandered home with my fresh laundry and a belly full of coffee, my head was filled with silly ideas of magic handbags and zombie convenience stores. Not a bad place to be.

Now, I know this will be an unpopular sentiment, but I hate the New York City Marathon. Hate it. I don’t know why, except that for how much I loathe it, it’s gotta be more deep-seated than the crush of gawking pedestrians right outside my front door (though they really don’t help matters). So when I heard the stampede of marathon watchers on the roof, and the first cheers coming from First Avenue, I tossed my book into my purse, grabbed a scarf and mittens, hit the pavement and headed west to Central Park.

Satisfaction #2: Fall time in the Ramble.

After walking aimlessly, I sat for the longest time next to the water, reading and listening to tourists churn by in their rented rowboats. Then I wandered south, redirecting my path every time I could hear cheering seeping in past my headphones. Damn marathon, you will not ruin my day! I crunched through leaves, watched puppies and nibbled on a hot pretzel. Then I wandered back into the city noise for some shopping therapy.

Satisfaction #3: Betsey Johnson lingerie.

Victoria’s sad little secret is that she lost her imagination years ago, but on happy accident, I discovered that she now carries lingerie by other designers. Think flirty and sexy, instead of tired old whore. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t go directly home and prance around in my apartment wearing a new frilly babydoll.

Satisfaction #4: Hot bath.

By the time I got home from my adventures, it was dark and glory to the baby jesus, all the marathoners had disappeared. So after prancing got old (no audience, after all), I decided to kick the relaxin’ into high gear. I filled the tub with smelly bath salts and lounged around in blue-green water nekkid and happy until my fingers pruned. It was heaven.

When my sister called later that night, she asked what I’d been up to.

“Oh, not a whole lot. But it was awesome.â€ù

“Can we go to the Natural History Museum and make out in the rainforest? I’ve always wanted to.”

“Yes.”

“You’re easy.”

“I mean, come on, it’s a rainforest. I’m in.”

“Even if it’s a pretend rainforest?”

“As long as it’s not pretend making out…”

“Oh, hell no.”

“Then we’re good.”